To the Last Salute: Memories of an Austrian U-Boat Commander

Thirty-Six. Internal Duty

As we descend we hear the first direct hit, then depth charges follow of such power that our whole boat rocks up and down. Soon after, I see the usual picture in the periscope. The heavily laden ship lies with her bow deep in the water. Fishing trawlers take on the crew and after two hours, the steamer goes perpendicularly into the deep. A drifting raft is all that remains of her. Thirty-Six.Internal Duty The northwester had blown itself out. At first it brought more heavy rainsqualls, but then the sky lightened and the wind increased to force 8. An attack is impossible in the heavy seas. Two hospital ships steam by to the north; our boat evades them and then, with one engine running slowly, holds her course into the sea. U-14 swims on the water like a duck. The boat is constantly awash, the only halfway dry place is provided by the conning tower. So the off watch men are crowded into that space to snatch some fresh air. Down in the boat it is terrible now. The hatch must be half closed against the oncoming sea and, except for one machinist’s mate, who is called the “iron reserve” because “it” never “catches up” with him, nearly everyone is seasick. Coming from the tower out of the fresh salty sea air into the boat’s interior takes away your breath. Hot fumes rise up to meet you—a sickening mixture of oil, cooking odors, and sweat stench. Immediately each man heaves and only a rapid flight back to the tower can help. But it is the changing of the watch; you must go below. In addition , that continuous lurching and pitching—only the most robust stomach can stand that. The watch officer turns to the radioman, whose collateral is supply petty officer. “Gumpoldsberger, what’s being cooked today?” “Sir, today we are making schnitzel; we have a great number of them preserved!” INTERNAL DUTY 163 “Very good, let’s go! It will soon be midday. By the way, which stations have you picked up today?” “None, sir. I have not been able to pick up any. The antenna is constantly awash.” Then he disappears—sighing—in the boat and wants to fetch the cook. He finds him lying in his bunk, pale and retching. “Cook, let’s go! You need to cook now!” “But sir, I feel sick!” “Not sick! Puke, and then let’s go!” Back in the harbor, schnitzel had been put up carefully in glass jars.1 They are stowed away in the provisions cabinet. Gumpoldsberger opens the door and recoils. A revolting stench streams at him. With averted head he reaches in and pulls out a jar. The lid is removed and the meat is rotten. It stinks dreadfully. The second glass jar looks exactly the same. “Such a rotten mess! Cook, come here! Now take the jars out—but do not throw up!” The cook does not comprehend the situation, sticks his head in, and wants to look. But only for a second; then he bursts out with his hands covering his mouth and runs to the nearest head.2 “You pig!” is all that the petty officer can muster up in sympathy ; then he works on, holding his nose. One jar after the other stands there facing him, completely spoiled, and he must get help to empty them overboard. At one time subatmospheric pressure must have existed in the boat, which loosened the jar lids. The clouds of stench are not so easy to dispel; everyone complains loudly about this awful mess, and it isn’t even the radioman’s fault. For lunch instead of schnitzel there is only bread and cheese, and the radioman gets sidelong glances from the crew. Then I send for him: “Where is tonight’s war report?” “I have not had any reception, whether from Pola, Nauen, Osmaniye, or Malta.” “OK. But tonight you try a little harder. For two days now I have had no news!” 164 INTERNAL DUTY “Yes, sir.” By the next morning the wind from the northwest has risen to force 10 and the seas have increased. The ingenious cook has produced tea served with ship’s biscuits. At noon, cold tinned food; in the evening, bread and cheese again. “Say, Gumpoldsberger, if you don’t give us anything else to eat, you could...